


Of Bespoke Sweaters and Subterfuge

by flawlesshumanbean



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, One of my first posts, its just I thought it would be cool if John Watson was a kingsman, sorry if its stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawlesshumanbean/pseuds/flawlesshumanbean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was first, and foremost, a Kingsman. He was sent to keep an eye on Sherlock by Kingsman and never left.<br/>Moriarty will show up later, It starts from the beginning of TV canon and will probably veer off from Reichenbach because I don't like season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afghanistan

     John Watson had been an army doctor before and after being recruited to Kingsman. He’d taken the training time off as leave between tours and had been perfectly capable of shooting Gladstone- after all, they never said he had to shoot him between the eyes, so why shouldn’t the tail suffice? That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been immensely relieved when the rounds had been blanks. Arthur didn’t like his position in society, but admired his drive to distance himself from his family’s social status. John Watson knew how to handle a bigot- wait patiently for the right time to strike, or get on their good side. Chester King had been easy to impress and convince that the medical field training in Afghanistan could add to his Kingsman skills. That, and there was ample opportunity to be ‘captured’ in battle and gain intelligence about Afghani forces and espionage groups. This way his military service could be completed and valuable to Kingsman. It was during one of these missions that John Watson was shot.

     “Please I don’t know anything. I’m just an army doctor. Let me leave.” He said softly to his captor.

     “Medical men do not lurk alone about bases they should not know exist.” The man drawled, drawing the smooth side of a knife against John’s cheek. “Tell me, who do you work for?”

     John glared up into the larger man’s eyes- brown like his hair and scruffy beard. “I am a member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

     “Fine. Have it this way, you’ll never-” the man was cut off as a knife poked out of his chest. He fell to reveal Galahad.

     “Galahad. Am I glad to see your face” John said. “Would you do a gent a favor and untie me?”

     “Gawain, I’m glad to see you’re safe. How goes the army service?” Galahad asked, loosening John’s ties.

     “Bloody hard to balance with Kingsman but I’m managing.” John said, rubbing his wrists. Galahad smiled briefly, then moved out of the tent where John had been held, motioning for him to follow.

     The blinding light seared into John’s vision as he lifted his hand to block it. The desert stretched as far as he could see. Galahad was walking towards a hill. “Come, Gawain. We need to find your unit.”

     Watson limped after his colleague. “I reckon they’re probably where I left them.” The still air was shattered by distant gunshots. “Or not, I need a radio Galahad.”

     “I haven’t one on me, John.” Galahad turned and grinned “But, Merlin did say they’re just over the hills. In the direction of all the fighting. I’ll take you to them, but they can’t see me- semantics you know.”

     John waved his hand in dismissal as they cleared the hill. “Go on then, Galahad. I can manage. You’ve probably got another mission to get to. Little old John Watson will be fine.”

     “You didn’t look fine in that tent. I’ll leave you once I’ve sighted your unit.” John huffed but continued to follow his colleague. They walked in silence and crested another hill, and heard a voice yelling.

     “WATSON? WHERE ARE YA WATSON?”

     “That’ll be my unit.” John turned to Galahad, “You can leave me now Harry- I’ll be fine.”

     “Oh alright. See you soon. I’ve got the shop working on a new bespoke for you.”

     “Ta, Harry.” John set off in the sound of the voices. He ran through the dense bushes to the sight of his unit- about half of them injured. They were huddled behind a rock. “Why are you lot screaming my name? What happened?”

     “What happened? What happened to you? We woke up to a camp attack and you were gone!” One of his favorite unit mates- Rani Dalal. Rani was brilliant with a gun and her wits.

     “I got nabbed. I’m fine.” He moved to inspect her leg, which was twisted at an odd angle.

     “You’re covered in blood.” She pointed out.

     “Not all of it is mine.” He said, before pushing air out of his teeth. “This sprain is probably the best we could hope for in this scenario. You all need to go ba-” Before he could continue a sharp pain pierced through his shoulder. He was shot. Bright light clouded his vision. John fell back with a sharp thud. He stared up into the sky. “Please, God, let me live. Let me live. I’ve so much to do yet.” He whispered into the bright light before everything faded to black.


	2. A Study in Concealment- Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets one Sherlock Holmes.

John awoke with a blistering headache. His vision cleared. He attempted to sit up and was stopped abruptly by a piercing pain in his shoulder. “John!” Harry Hart, his colleague and friend stood near his bed. “I’m so sorry John. I should have stayed with you or made sure your unit was alright. This is all my fault.” John looked at his friend blankly.

“What?”

“You were shot, in the shoulder. And I should have stayed to make sure you were alright.” Harry said gently.

“This isn’t your fault. I understood the risks involved." He sighs, rubbing his face with a free hand, "Will I recover?”

Harry shook his head. “The damage was extensive; we won’t know the extent of the damage until you start on recovery. We will most likely have to pull you from all fieldwork. I’m sorry.”

John sucked in a breath. “All fieldwork? Are you sure there isn’t anything? Nothing at home?” 

Harry shook his head and began to leave. “I’m so sorry John.”  
\---------------  
Halfway across London, a consulting detective had evaded his older brother one too many times. Mycroft resolved to call in a favor. “Hello, my name is Mycroft Holmes. Can you give me Chester King?” he paused for a moment. “No, I’d like to speak to Arthur please. I’d like to propose a Kingsman operation. Yes, I’ll hold.”  
\---------------  
John Watson recovered slowly, his limp hindering his return to Kingsman service. And his army therapist was convinced he had a psychosomatic limp- and trust issues of all things. So sue him for being cautious. He was a Kingsman agent after all. He did realize some of those issues were from his childhood but who didn’t have childhood issues? Harry burst into his flat, a huge smile on his face. “We’ve got an assignment for you, John!”

John’s entire face lit up and he smiled for one of the first times after his injury. “What is it?”

“Some posh MI6’s brother needs surveillance but he’s too smart for a normal agent. You’re a doctor, and you’re fantastic at undercover operations. We think he’ll need a medically trained agent because of his past drug use. Get well and we’ll maneuver a situation so that you can begin. There’s a theory down at the intel desk that he’s working with some organized crime leaders. That’s why MI6 needs him watched, that and his brother’s worried. His name’s Sherlock Holmes.” Harry slipped him a photo of the man, “So- what do you say?”

John grimaced “Do you think he’ll want a cripple? I can’t even walk, Harry.” 

“John, you would be a fantastic agent even if we’d had to amputate your limbs. This is the perfect assignment. Take it.”

“I’ll do it but I’m going to need a new bespoke, is there civilian clothing like that yet? I need new glasses as well.”

Harry grinned at his friend. “Welcome back, Gawain.” He pulled a pair of thick-framed glasses form his breast pocket. 

“It’s good to be back, Galahad.” He said as he slipped on the frames. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Merlin should have a new gun and other equipment for you.” 

“Alright. See you then?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to miss your return, would I?” Harry grinned and slipped out of John’s flat with a wave, leaving him in silence. He needed to get a new flat, this one was barely paid on his army pension and his money from Kingsman was going to his sister’s rehab. He hadn’t seen her since she’d left Clara. John tightened his fist on his cane and set off to get some fresh air away from the oppressive still of the flat. He wandered around outside, walking through a park. 

“John. John Watson!” A voice called his name. He swung his head in its direction, saw no one he knew, and continued on. A man tapped his shoulder. “John, how are you?”

“Stamford?” He asked incredulously- the man had changed since college, but then so had John.

“Yeah. How are you? Heard you were in the Middle East getting shot at.”

“I got shot. I’m home.” John said, attempting to get rid of Stamford. He needed to figure out how to get close to Sherlock Holmes.

“Yeah. How long are you staying in London?” Stamford apparently was lonely and decided John was his victim of his unceasing chatter.

“Not long, my pension will run out soon. I need a flat mate, but who would want to be flat mates with a freak like me?” John was just being honest with his old friend. 

“You’re not the first to say that to me today. Come on, I think I know a bloke.” John followed Stamford to St. Bart’s- drowning out his comments about teaching and other chatter. They went down to the morgue area, and he found himself staring at a man that looked very similar to the picture of Sherlock Holmes. John found himself blurting from nerves.

“Bit different from my day.” He said, instantly cringing. If the man was Sherlock Holmes he needed to be reputable and calm. He couldn’t be discovered as a secret agent before he even begun his mission. John reached a hand up to brush his hair back, and flipped the switch on his recording glasses. Hopefully Merlin would pick up the feed.

Mike didn’t notice anything, chuckling out an “You’ve no idea!”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” The stranger that might be his target asked.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked.

“I prefer to text.” The stranger returned.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.” Mike said- leaving John an opportunity to gain an in and do the man a favor.

“Er, here. Use mine.” He said, shifting his wait to fish the phone out of his back pocked. 

“Oh. Thank you.” The possible Sherlock Holmes said, glancing at Mike before approaching John to take the phone.

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike said as Sherlock took hold of John’s phone and began typing on the keyboard. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man who was most likely Sherlock Holmes queried after doing a once over of John while typing on the cell phone. John silently praised his luck for wearing his civilian clothes and not the bespoke suit, although the question derailed him. 

“Sorry?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked again, with more edge.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know…”

He turned his attention back to the microscope equipment he’d been using earlier. “How do you feel about the violin?”

John cleared his throat, feeling very out of touch with his usually very quick reaction times. “I’m sorry, what?” 

Sherlock turned his attention to a nearby laptop and spoke while rapidly typing. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” Sherlock looked up at John “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” 

John looked at Mike, wondering if he’d told him something beforehand. If the man preferred to text Mike might have sent something earlier, but Stamford hadn’t used his phone while John was with him. Could he have figured out John had been sent to watch him? John used the silence to look a bit slower “Oh, you…you told him about me?”

Mike shook his head with a grin “Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John asked.

“I did” Sherlock stated- pulling on a coat. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.” 

John wished that Harry had told him the man was a genius, but Galahad knew his weakness for interesting people. “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

Sherlock ignored the question and deflected. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He walked closer to John. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry- gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” Sherlock headed past John for the door.

“Is that it?” John called out, trying to stall and verify that this was Sherlock Holmes.

“Is that what?” the man asked, tilting his head.

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?” John asked, hoping that this was actually Sherlock Holmes. 

“Problem?” 

John let a smile creep through his façade and looked at Mike, grateful his connection had brought about this luck. Now he wouldn’t have to contrive a situation to meet the man. “We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock inspected John carefully before speaking again. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him- possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic- quite correctly, I’m afraid.” John shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked down at his leg. “That enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He passed through the door before turning around and leaning back into the room. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” Sherlock winked at John and jutted his head in farewell to Mike. 

“Yeah. He’s always like that.” Mike said after a moment. 

“Ta, Mike. I have some errands to run. It was good seeing you.” John said, stepping in the hallway and then a quiet corner to read the text sent by Sherlock. He then put a call through to Merlin.

“Merlin, I trust from my feed you’ll see that I’ve made contact with the target. Can you tell me what ‘If brother has green ladder arrest brother.’ Means if sent by one Sherlock Holmes? Also, could you please brief me on this man- I think he’s a genius.”

“Course, Gawain. But first, how in the bloody hell did ya find him before we did?” Merlin sounded amused but not surprised. John rarely let assignments stagnate after receiving preliminary information.

“Mutual friend from college. Send me a dossier on him?”

“Already done. You’ll need to come to the shop before tonight and pick up some equipment. I’ll start formulating some ways to hide your things in the flat if you’re to live with him. You moved damn fast Gawain. Arthur will be pleased.” 

“See you later then. Ta, Merlin” John stashed the phone in his pocket and returned to his tiny flat for one more night in a significantly elevated mood. 

Later that evening he picked up a new bespoke suit, umbrella, fountain pen, and a few new guns as well as a second pair of video glasses. Harry hadn’t been lying when he’d said that the shop had perfected civilian bulletproof clothing. He now had a whole wardrobe of sweaters, jeans, flannels, and jackets to replace his own. Merlin had even developed a camouflaged umbrella/cane for him. This assignment was really looking up, in John’s opinion. And he enjoyed the presence of Sherlock. He just hoped that he’d be able to stay out of headlines but had a feeling from Sherlock’s dossier that avoiding the limelight might be a bit difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. Took me longer than I thought it would! Used a lovely transcript by arianedevere for the dialogue I wanted from the first episode (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html)


	3. A Study in Concealment- Part 2

John looked up at 221B Baker street, feeling an odd sense of home already. “Hello” Sherlock said, appearing at John’s shoulder.

 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes.” John said, testing the water.

 

“Sherlock, please” Holmes said, as they shook hands.

 

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.” Sherlock grinned at John’s comment.

 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.” This was one of the first things John had read on the dossier, but felt more comfortable having Sherlock tell him the information.

 

“Sorry- You stopped her husband being executed?”

 

“Oh no. I ensured it.” Sherlock said brightly as the front door was opened by an elderly woman who embraced the lanky man.

 

“Hello Sherlock.” She said. Sherlock ducked out of her hug after a moment and then presented John like an offering with a flick of his hands.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”

 

“Hello, dear.” She said, taking an immediate shine to the agent.

 

John smiled. “Hello.”

 

“Come in, come in.” Mrs. Hudson said, turning into the home.

 

“Thank you.” John said, older ladies were usually so doting and sweet. He could tell he’d like Mrs. Hudson already.

 

John struggled to hobble up the stairs, focusing on his every attempted step. At the top of the landing Sherlock stood waiting for him, door open. John cleared his throat and looked around the flat. It was scattered with loose papers and boxes. “Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”

 

Sherlock looked pleased with himself. “Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely, so I went straight ahead and moved in.”

 

John blinked. He had just been about to comment on the state of the room as rubbish, but apparently Sherlock liked to live somewhat slobbily. “So this is all…” he said, unsure of how to interact with the man.

 

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit.” He looked sheepish and shook himself after a little while, walking over to the mantle with a pile of envelopes and stabbed them to it with a knife. John followed him over, pointing at something on the mantle with his cane.

 

“That’s a skull.” He hoped that Sherlock wasn’t a murderer. That would be so inconvenient, he’d probably have to turn him in.

 

“Friend of mine. When I say ‘friend’…”

 

Mrs. Hudson took the opportunity to pop back into the room, picking up a cup and saucer. “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be _needing_ two bedrooms.” John smiled; he quite liked this Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Sherlock and I aren’t an item, Mrs. Hudson.” He said, trying to imply that he’d be fine with any gender of partner.

 

Mrs. Hudson lowered her head and whispered “Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.” John glanced at Sherlock, hoping he’d inform Mrs. Hudson that they weren’t romantically involved. Sherlock shrugged. Mrs. Hudson tutted and walked to the kitchen. “Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made.” She began to tidy up.

 

John walked to an armchair, plumped a cushion- then plopped down, looking at Sherlock. “I looked you up on the internet last night.”

 

Sherlock turned to face him “Anything interesting?”

 

John grinned. “Found your website, The Science of Deduction.” It had been in the dossier, and had proved worth a read through.

 

Sherlock smiled proudly, “What did you think?” John looked at the man incredulously, he _had_ to know he was brilliant.

 

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.” Too bad he couldn’t read his Kingsman training, John thought, feeling a desire to be honest with the man. It was like he said earlier, flatmates should know the worst about each other.

 

“How?” He genuinely wanted to know how the man worked, was it some sort of information relay through an earpiece? No, his instincts told him it was an inherent talent.

 

Sherlock just smiled and turned away just as Mrs. Hudson returned from the kitchen holding a newspaper with a headline about the serial suicides. John had heard that someone from the UK desk was looking into those. He’d been incredibly bored while in the hospital, and the army assigned therapist was…interesting. She kept trying to make him blog when the most important aspect of a Kingsman agent was secrecy. He’d have to speak to Arthur about that. If he was going to be pulled into the limelight, it might as well have positive effects. The blog could also give him sufficient alibis with Sherlock if he was called away on another assignment. John was pulled out of his musing as Mrs. Hudson spoke:

 

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.” Sherlock seemed to ignore her as he walked to the window of the living room. John heard a car pull up to the side of the curb.

 

“Four.” He looked down at something John couldn’t see. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

 

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

 

Sherlock turned from the window as a man with grey hair John hadn’t seen in the dossier entered the flat. “Where?”

 

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” The stranger said.

 

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

 

“You know how they never leave notes?” The stranger asked, and John had a feeling he knew where the statement was leading. Sherlock nodded briskly. “This one did. Will you come?”

  
“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock asked warily.

 

“It’s Anderson.” The stranger said apologetically.

 

Sherlock grimaced. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

  
“Well, he won’t be your assistant.” The stranger said with a chuckle.

 

“I _need_ an assistant.” Sherlock whined.

 

“Will you come?” the stranger asked, seemingly indifferent.

 

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

 

“Thank you.” The stranger said, turning and stomping down the stairs. John was thoroughly confused. His dossier had mentioned police work, but not this sort of interaction. Sherlock watched the stranger leave and then leaped into the air, making fists triumphantly and twirling around the room with an enormous smile.

 

“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!” he picked up his scarf and coat, pulling them on while heading for the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.” His outburst of emotion surprised John, and was actually somewhat endearing. His love of crime was like John’s love of the Kingsman assignments- the thrill of adrenaline through his veins.

 

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” John doubted this was a statement she lived up to- Sherlock seemed to have her wrapped around his finger.

 

“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!” John did not intend to do that. He was going to settle in and find a place to hide his Kingsman gear. Sherlock grabbed something from the table and dashed out the door. Mrs. Hudson turned to him.

 

“Look at him, dashing about! _My_ husband was just the same.” John made a face; she wouldn’t accept that Sherlock and he weren’t romantically involved. Oh, well. That was better than having her think he was a spy. “But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.” John was off put by this, just what about him was the ‘sitting-down’ type? He was very active, and could kill a man in a thousand different ways. Mrs. Hudson turned towards the kitchen, “I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”

 

That was all John could take, his leg was not an impairment of his mind. “ _Damn_ my leg!” His outburst surprised himself, and he grimaced as Mrs. Hudson turned back to him, a shocked look on her face. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just that sometimes this bloody thing…” He hit his leg with his cane.

 

“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip.” She turned to the kitchen again.

“Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you.”

  
“Just this once, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.”

 

John smirked to himself, deciding to test her limit. “Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got ‘em.”

 

“Not your housekeeper!” she shouted from the kitchen. John settled in, picking up the paper she’d had earlier. There was a picture of the man who had informed Sherlock of the suicide- D.I. Lestrade. Before he could go on reading, he heard a floorboard squeak and looked up to see Sherlock in the doorway.

 

“You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an Army doctor.” John wondered just where Sherlock was going with the statement.

 

“Yes.” He rose to his feet and turned to Sherlock.

 

“Any good?”

  
John snorted. “ _Very_ good.”

 

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

 

“Mmm, yes.” That was a given of Kingsman too, although the frequency of those dramatically violent deaths had increased since joining the secret service.

 

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Sherlock said, with a small smile.

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

 

“Wanna see some more?” Sherlock’s invitation was just what John needed to keep an eye on his charge- as well as have some excitement in his life.

 

“Oh _God_ , yes.” He practically yelled at his flatmate. Sherlock spun on his heel, leading John out of the room and down the stairs. John yelled back up “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea. Going out.”

 

Sherlock turned to answer her coming question as she reached the hallway. “Both of you?”

 

The genius smiled. “Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something _fun_ going on!” He kissed her cheek in farewell.

 

“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.” She says, smiling as Sherlock heads for the front door again.

 

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!” He exited the building and hailed an approaching cab. John slid in next to him, and they sat in silence for a while. Sherlock was on his phone, but John used the opportunity to study him. “Okay, you’ve got questions.”

 

“Yeah, where are we going?”

 

“Crime scene. Next?”

 

“Who are you? What do you do?” John was sincere about the questions. There was a thing to be said about dossiers, but they tended to not value personal interpretation of self.

“What do you think?”

 

Oh, the man was brilliant. John hesitated, using his knowledge of the day and attempting to disregard the dossier. “I’d say private detective…”

  
“But?”

  
“But the police don’t go to private detectives.”

 

Sherlock looked very pleased with himself and John. “I’m a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” He seemed to preen under John’s attention.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means when the police are out of their depth- which is always, they consult me.”

 

John decided to ruffle his feathers. “But the police don’t consult amateurs.”

 

Sherlock sent a glare at him. “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’, You looked surprised.”

 

John stilled wanted to know how he knew that. “Yes, how _did_ you know?”

 

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor- obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan- Afghanistan or Iraq.” Sherlock sat back, proud of himself. John loved the genius’ comments and wanted to know more, not just for the assignment but because he was beginning to trust the man.

 

“You said I had a therapist.” He said, peering at the consulting detective, eager to hear his response.

 

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp- of _course_ you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother.”

 

“Hmm?” John asked, wondering where he thought he had a brother. John Watson did not have a brother.

 

Sherlock held his hand out. “Your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re looking for a flatshare- you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.” John put the phone in Sherlock’s hand, wondering when he’d figure out John had a sister. “Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

 

“The engraving.” John said, disagreeing with that Sherlock assumed he had only one luxury item. He had plenty faux- luxurious items from Kingsman. The engraving read: “Harry Watson, From Clara, XXX.”

 

“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently- this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then- six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left _him,_ he would have kept it. People do-sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her._ He gave the phone to _you_ : that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don’t_ like his drinking.”

 

John was astounded, he couldn’t figure out his sister was a sister, but he knew about her drinking. “How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

 

Sherlock grinned at him. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.” He handed the phone back to John who slid it into his pocket. “There you go, you see- you were right.”

 

“Right about what?” John asked, he had gotten a bit lost in the conversation.

 

“That the police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock looks out the side window, biting his lip nervously. John found it rather endearing and sad that he was waiting for John’s reaction that way- nervous to be judged.

 

“That…was amazing!” he said honestly, the detective was fascinating.

 

Sherlock just blinks at him until he finally responds with a “Do you think so?” John wanted to strangle whomever told Sherlock his intellect wasn’t amazing.

 

“Of _course_ it was! It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” Maybe if he said it enough the man would believe him.

 

“That’s not what people normally say.” It would be hard to have your secrets spouted at you, but John found it interesting and wished Sherlock would read the Kingsman training and mission on him. Perhaps when he trusted him more, or when they had a conversation on paying the rent or responsibilities John could tell him.

 

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

 

Sherlock grinned a little “Piss off!” He smiles and John grins, looking out at London passing them by. The rest of the ride is amicable, and John finds himself warming up to the genius. He hopes he isn’t spying for any crime syndicates. The police work rather suggests so.

 

They arrive at Lauriston Gardens far too soon for John’s liking. As they walk towards the crime scene Sherlock resumes their conversation. “Did I get anything wrong?”

 

John chooses his next words carefully. “Harry and me don’t get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker.”

 

Sherlock preens “Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.” 

 

A small chuckle escapes John’s lips “And Harry’s short for Harriet.”

 

Sherlock stops walking, obviously frustrated. “Harry’s your sister.”

 

John looks back as he keeps going, “Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?”

 

Sherlock ignores him and practically spits at his mistake. “Sister!”

 

John sighs “No, seriously, what am I doing here?” Sherlock had no real practical reason for him to accompany the genius other than John’s medical training, but through Kingsman he’d learned how to read a dead body so he’d have to tone down his knowledge a bit.

 

“Sherlock is still ignoring him, but begins to walk- seemingly over his mistake but mutters as he passes John. “There’s always something.”

 

Together they approach the police tape, manned by an agent who’s features turn in disgust as she eyes Sherlock. “Hello, freak.”

 

John bristles at the jab, quite wanting to kick her shins, but Sherlock ignores it. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

“Why?” She asks nastily, turning her nose up a little.

 

“I was invited.” John can make out slight exasperation in Sherlock’s tone.

 

“Why?” She asks again, and John is sure she is just trying to stall and annoy the detective.

 

“I think he wants me to take a look.” Sherlock retorts, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

John unclenches a fist, worried that he as become so possessive of the genius so soon.

 

“Well, you know what _I_ think, don’t you?” the agent asks. Sherlock moves past her, lifting the tape and ducking underneath.

 

“Always, Sally.” He makes a show of inhaling. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.” John giggles at his use of his genius. There is only a slight chance that this man could work for a crime syndicate if he puts up with such hostility to solve crimes.

 

“I don’t..” she answered, and then zeroes in on John. “Er, who’s this?”

 

Sherlock glances back at him. “Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson.” He turns to John, “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan.” His voice turns lower, and John awaits the sarcasm laden words “Old friend”

 

Donovan looks livid. “A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?!” She scrutinizes John and he half expects her to comment on the cane and limp.

 

“What, did he follow you home?” she demands with a flip of her hair. John decided he doesn’t like the woman and disregards her.

 

“Would it be better if I just waited and…”

 

Sherlock snorts and lifts the tape for him to follow. “No.”

 

Donovan announces his arrival over radio “Freak’s here. Brining him in.” John resists the urge to trip her with his cane as she leads them towards the house. Just before they can enter a man exits, dressed in a blue coverall.

 

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock sneers.

 

Anderson returns the statement with a glare. “It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” he shakes his finger in Sherlock’s direction, and John eyes Sherlock as he doesn’t retort.

 

“Quite clear.” The consulting detective inhales dramatically again. “And is your wife away for long?” John bites his lip to stop himself laughing.

 

Anderson turns. “Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.”

 

“Your deodorant told me that.” Sherlock says, straight faced.

 

“My deodorant?”

 

Sherlock quirks a half smile. “It’s for men.”

 

Anderson looks exasperated. “Well, of _course_ it’s for men! _I’m_ wearing it!”

 

“So’s Sergeant Donovan.”

 

Anderson twirls to look at Donovan and Sherlock sniffs loudly.“Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?”

 

Anderson turns back and points angrily, John thinks the man should choose another form of anger expression. Its quite rude to point. “Now look, whatever you’re trying to imply…”

 

Sherlock looks at the man. “I’m not implying _anything_.” He pushes past the pair. “I’m sure Sally cam round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over.” He reaches the door and then turns back, John has followed him to the edge of the building- amused by his new assignment. “And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

The annoying pair, and John has dubbed them, stare at Sherlock in horror. The genius smiles smugly and turns to go into the house. John makes a point of looking at Donovan’s knees, and then follows Sherlock. He trails the man to a room where Lestrade is putting on a coverall identical to the one Anderson had on. Sherlock points to them “You’ll need to wear one of these.”

 

Lestrade glances at him “Who’s this?”

 

“He’s with me.”

 

“But who _is_ he?”

 

Sherlock looks at the Detective Inspector scathingly “I _said_ he’s with me.”

 

John picks up a coverall, the main forces could be using so much better technology for crime scenes, and he doesn’t want to lose his bespoke jacket. He nods at the coveralls “Aren’t you gonna put one on?” Sherlock glares at him, and snaps his latex gloves on. John shakes his head, this man was insufferable but so interesting.

 

Sherlock turns back to Lestrade, “So where are we?”

 

Lestrade grabs another pair of latex gloves while answering Sherlock “Upstairs.” John groans internally, stairs have been so difficult since being shot. He utterly loathes them. He struggles after Lestrade and Sherlock, cursing the circular staircase in every language he’s managed to learn. The coveralls don’t help much, limiting John’s movements as he’s accustomed to jeans and a sweater. “I can give you two minutes.” Lestrade says. John glances up at Sherlock, watches a smirk disappear with the words.

 

“May need longer.” He bites out.

 

Lestrade sighs. “Her name’s Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.” They continue to an empty room on the second story, two stories too tall for John’s liking, and Sherlock immediately focuses on the corpse. John discreetly scratches his head, flicking on the glasses feed. He’d turned it off for the majority of the cab ride, wanting to trust his assignment but if Sherlock’s practices were under scrutiny, he wanted proof and a feed to rewatch should Sherlock turn out to be one of the bad guys. John watches as Sherlock’s eyes dart from place to place on the woman’s body.

 

“Shut up.” Sherlock barks out, and John wonders if he needs silence to work.

 

“I didn’t say anything.” Lestrade complains.

 

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.” Lestrade shoots John a surprised look, and Sherlock steps closer to the corpse. As he examines it John watches him, notices him note the ‘Rache’ carved into the wood of the floorboards. He is secretly glad that his assignment is here and not abroad, Sherlock is fascinating. He practically floats through the crime scene. It’s endearing if John is honest with himself. Sherlock’s mouth upturns in a smile.

 

“Got anything?” Lestrade asks.

 

“Not much.” The genius replies, but John can tell from his tone that he’s lying. Sherlock stands and whips off his gloves, pulling out a cell phone and typing on it.

Anderson has joined them, leaning in the doorway. “She’s German. ‘Rache’, it’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something.” Sherlock slams the door in Anderson’s face.

 

“Yes, thank you for your input.” He sneers, turning away from the closed door. John smiles.

 

“So she’s German?” Lestrade asks. John rolls his eyes, his logic was she couldn’t be German because German authorities weren’t involved yet and Wilson wasn’t a very German surname.

Sherlock is still gazing at his phone. “Of course she’s not. She’s from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…before returning home to Cardiff.” He slips the phone back in his pocket. “So far, so obvious.”

 

John furrows his brow, how did he get Cardiff? Some sort of app? Did he have an information feed in his phone? He shook himself, he’d probably worked out the weather patterns or something. “Sorry- Obvious?”

 

“What about the message, though?”

 

Sherlock ignores Lestrade and looks to John. “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

 

“Of the message, or?”

 

“Of the body, you’re a medical man.”

 

Lestrade intervenes before John can look at the corpse. “Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside.”

 

“They won’t work with me.” Sherlock whines.

 

“I’m breaking every rule letting _you_ in here.” Lestrade returns forcefully.

 

“Yes, because you need me.” Sherlock says, as if it’s a fact.

 

Lestrade throws his hands in the air. “Yes I do. God help me.” Sherlock motions John to the woman’s corpse, and John looks at Lestrade-waiting for permission. “Oh, do as he says. Help yourself.” With this he turns and opens the door, heading outside. “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.”

 

With that Sherlock and John approach the body. John winces at the shooting pains as he lowers himself to one knee, clutching his cane for support on the other side. For the life of him he cannot figure out why a genius like Sherlock Holmes would need him, maybe for his Kingsman training, but Sherlock doesn’t know about that.

 

“What am I doing here?” he asks Holmes softly.

 

Sherlock smiles at him. “Helping me make a point.”

 

 

John sighs. “I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

 

Sherlock shrugs, “Yeah, well, this is more fun.” John cannot believe he said that.

 

“Fun!? There’s a woman lying dead.” He shoots a glare at the genius and leans to examine the body. No unusual smells, though. “Asphyxiation, probably. No bruises so its probably drugs. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her, but it could have been a seizure.”

 

Sherlock looks pleased. “You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.”

 

“She’s one of the suicides? The fourth…” John trails off. Sherlock had to be ten steps ahead of him.

 

Lestrade re-enters, “Sherlock- two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got.”

 

Sherlock stands while John fights to get on his feet again “Victim is in her late thirties Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink.” John has to stifle a giggle at that, he too noticed the awful shade of pink. If he hadn’t known better he’d say she was a Dolores Umbridge lookalike.

 

“Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.” John does a quick scan of the room, which is still empty, and frowns at Sherlock.

 

“Suitcase?” Lestrade demands.

 

“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

 

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. If you’re just making this up…”

 

Sherlock points at her left hand, which has a wedding ring on it. “Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside- that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work: look at her nails- impeccable except for the wood. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.” John decides he likes Sherlock, that was an amazing display of deduction.

 

“That’s brilliant.” He says, and Sherlock glares a bit. John huffs, he didn’t mean to insult his flatmate’s ego with a compliment. “Sorry.” He mumbles.

 

“Cardiff?” Lestrade bites out.

 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, sounding genuinely confused.

 

“It’s not obvious to me.” John says, but would guess that Sherlock figured it out using his phone and clues on the body.

 

Sherlock looks at them disparagingly, “Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.” John huffs a little, he’s not an idiot! He was selected for Kingsman training; he is pretty brilliant. Sherlock makes a show of turning to the body. “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under he coat collar is damp too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just wind then, _strong_ wind- too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?” He shoves his phone in the detective’s face. “Cardiff.” John was right about the phone then, so he figured that Sherlock could probably be misled by facts, like if it had been raining in both Cardiff and London.

 

“That’s fantastic!” He says, he would love for Merlin to be this brilliant, it would make every mission so easy.

 

Sherlock turns to him “D’you know you do that out loud?” Does Sherlock not want him to be encouraging?

 

“Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

 

The Consulting Detective’s head turns to one side. “No, it’s…fine.”

 

“why do you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade asks, tapping one finger on his tigh.

Sherlock spins, examining the room. “Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is.”

 

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?” Lestrade asks. John is starting to understand why he constantly needed Sherlock’s help.

 

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of _course_ she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?” Sherlock practically spits the sarcasm at Lestrade.

 

The DI sigs, “How do you know she had a suitcase?”

 

Sherlock points to the corpse, and John notices that her tights have small splotches on the lower part of her leg. “Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this conscious of her appearance: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.” John watches as his flatmate examines the splotches more closely. “Now, where is it? What have you done with it?”

 

Lestrade looks slightly worried. “There wasn’t a case.”

 

Sherlock mutters a swear word and heads for the door, calling through the house. “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?” John limps after the man, wondering if his flatmate suspects murder because of the missing case. His assignment is down the stairs. John can hear him harassing other crime scene workers.

 

“Sherlock, there was no case!” Lestrade yells down the stairs. John wonders if Lestrade understands that this might be a vital piece of evidence.

 

Sherlock mutters something and stops on the stairs. “But they take the poison the selves. There are clear signs, even _you_ lot couldn’t miss them.”

 

Lestrade spluttered indignantly.

 

“It’s murder, all of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings. _Serial_ killings.” Sherlock looks delighted at the idea of a serial killer which isn’t even in the top ten most deranged things John’s seen. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There’s always something to look forward to.”

 

Lestrade still seems confused. John disparages whoever put this man in charge. “Why are you saying that?”

 

Sherlock looks up at them. “Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case.” Sherlock grows quiet. “So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.”

 

John chuckled. Such a convoluted, and probably accurate, theory. To play devils advocate he says “She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with hair still looking…” Sherlock trails off and then lights up as he realizes something. “Oh. _Oh!_ ” He claps in delight and John begins to worry about his mental state.

 

“Sherlock? What’ve you realized?” John askes gently.

 

“Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a  mistake.”

 

Lestrade coughs. “We can’t just wait!”

 

“Oh we’re done waiting!” Sherlock calls as he hurries down the stairs. “Look at her, really _look_! Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!” Sherlock disappears from view.

 

Lestrade calls after him. “Of course, year- but what mistake?!”

 

Sherlock pops back into view and yells at Lestrade. “PINK!” He runs off again, leaving John with a baffled Lestrade who goes back to the body with Anderson.

 

John only hesitates for a second. He begins to make his way down the stairs, cursing his leg. He ignores the officer that bumps him, removes the coverall and walks onto the street. He’s lost his assignment. Damn it. John begins to head to the road before Donovan stops him.

 

“He’s gone.”

 

“Who, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Yeah, he just took off. He does that.”

 

John scoffs. Of course he does. He was hyper focused on the case. “I figured. He seemed like he’d found a lead.” John looks away, dismissing her. He realizes that even though he had paid attention to the route on the way to the crime scene that he has no reasonable excuse for knowing where they are. He turns back to Donovan again.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“Brixton.”

 

“Right, thanks.” John begins to head for the road.

 

“You’re not his friend. He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”

 

Donovan’s words ignite the righteous fire in John. He wants to know what else she knows and decides to play ‘meek and mild mannered John Watosn’ “I’m nobody really… I just met him.”

 

“Okay, bit of advice then: Stay away from that guy.”

 

Sherlock seems like an okay bloke beyond the drug habit. Donovan just seems jealous. “Why?”

 

“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.”

 

Anyone can kill. John knows from experience. “Why do you think he would do that?”

 

Donovan sneers at the thought of Sherlock. “Because he’s a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored.” Lestrade calls her and she turns away from John. John rolls his eyes and resumes his path for the road. Sherlock isn’t a psychopath. He’s just a genius that doesn’t have the proper outlets.

 

As he limps down the road the public telephone rings. He looks at it and sighs. It’s not Kingsman business because they’d contact him directly via his glasses or some other way. It’s probably the brother. Merlin confirms this theory. “It’s the brother, he doesn’t know you’re the agent.”

 

John ignores the booth and continues. He ignores the phone ringing in the restauraunt by him, and heads for the next public telephone. It rings and he lifts it up.

 

“Hello?”

 

“There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

 

John plays clueless. Of course he saw the camera, he’s no amateur. “Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”  


“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson.”

 

John peers at the camera. “Yes. I see it.”

 

“Watch.” The camera swivels to him. John snorts. Controlling surveillance cameras is child’s play. He zones out as the voice walks him through more cameras. There’s a pause where he’s supposed to respond. “How are you doing this?”

 

“Get into the car, Doctor Watson.” A nondescript black car pulls up to the curb. John recognizes the model as a favorite of the government agencies. “I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.” That’s the problem with spy agencies, they always assume you know extent of every situation. The phone goes dead and John has to remind himself not to laugh. 

 

He gets in the car. There’s an agent there, typing on her phone. He is _supposed_ to be lovable cheerful Three Continents Watson, but he’s getting a bit grumpy as the ride goes on. His glasses have been recording since he met up with Sherlock, and if anything was to go wrong Merlin would let him know.

 

Eventually they arrive at an abandoned warehouse. There’s a man in a suit standing in the center, leaning on an umbrella. It’s utterly pretentious and John would do the exact same thing in his situation. In fact, he can tell that the suit and umbrella are similar to the Kingsman issued ones.  Sherlock’s brother, because who else could this be, gestures to an empty chair and John purses his lips. He refuses to bow to this man, but he does want to play a bit with his mind.

 

“You know, I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that. But er…you could just phone me. On _my_ phone, instead of the public ones.”  He steps closer and awaits a response.

 

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” Jesus, this man is even more dramatic than Sherlock. His pleasant expression turns stern. “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

 

Oh, fuck no. “I don’t wanna sit down.” John knows he sounds childish but fuck, he knows the damn limp is psychosomatic.

 

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

 

John shrugs. “You don’t seem very frightening.”

 

This draws a chuckle from the man. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don ‘t you think.” John desperately wants to roll his eyes but refrains. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Hm. The brother is overprotective. “I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him…” John looks down at his watch, not surprised at all to see that it’s past 0:00. “…yesterday.”

 

“And since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

 

John grits his teeth. Fucker has been trailing him since the beginning. He was definitely _not_ telling him he was Kingsman then. Every advantage may come in handy later.

 

“Who are you?’

 

“An interested party.”

 

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

 

“You’ve met him. How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friends that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“An enemy.

 

“An enemy?”

 

“In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

 

 Oh, like the brother doesn’t. John looks very pointedly around the warehouse. “Oh well thank God that _you’re_ above all that.”

 

Their word play is interrupted by John’s text tone. He smiles at the text from Sherlock: Baker Street. Come at once if convenient- SH.

 

“I hope I’m not distracting you.”

 

“Not distracting me at all, what with me being an unwilling guest.”  John slides the mobile back into a pocket.

 

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

 

John snorts. Like he’d tell him anything if he won’t admit to being Sherlock’s brother. “I could be wrong…but I think that’s none of your business.”

 

“It _could_ be.”

 

“It _really_ couldn’t. Especially if you’re his enemy.”

 

The brother dismisses his comment and pulls out a reference notebook. “If you do move into ah… two hundred and twenty-one B Baker street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you’re not a wealthy man.” And that is where the brother is wrong. John is comfortable enough but his cover for this assignment needed to be good.

 

“In exchange for what?”

 

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.” So not that different from John’s actual assignment, but the brother just rubs him the wrong way. And he likes Sherlock. Besides, he’s going to suss out if Sherlock could be trusted.

 

“Why?”

 

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

 

That may be the first truth that the brother has said to John. “That so nice of you.” John quips.

 

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a…difficult relationship.” What an understatement. The man called Kingsman and is now trying to recruit his brother’s flatmate. Wow.

 

John’s mobile sounds again and he immediately fishes it out of the pocket, even though his message reads across his glasses. The text reads: If inconvenient, come anyway. SH. John smiles. He does like this genius. “No.”

 

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.” Definitely related to Sherlock. He’s _very_ used to getting his way.

 

John slides the phone away again. “Don’t bother.”

 

The brother laughs. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

 

John sighs. Idiot should go back to spy training and see how to pinpoint an operative. “No, I’m not. I’m just not interested in spying on my flatmate for his enemy.”

 

The brother flips a page and reads “Trust issues, it says here.”

 

Trust the brother to get his army medical records. The bastard. “What’s that?”

 

“Could it be that you’ve decided to trust _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people?”

 

“Who says I trust him?”

 

“You don ‘t seem the kind to make friends easily.” That is an understatement. John makes friends when he wants to and not before. Galahad is one of his closest. This dance is starting to piss him off.

 

“Are we done?”

 

“You tell me.” The brother says, looking into John’s eyes as if he might be able to see his soul. John starts to walk away. “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

 

John stops. He _hates_ when people point out his weakness. “My what?” He hisses. Mycroft gestures for him to show him his left hand but John just bares his teeth.

 

“Most people blinder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

 

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about.” John grits out even though the brother is _right._ Sherlock feels like the rush of the mission.

 

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.” Some of that _may_ be true but John is still functional. He’s a highly trained Kingsman agent and this brother is not going to get one up on him. He only knows what is in his cover. Nothing else, and John has a part to play.

 

“Who the hell are you? How do you know that?”

 

“Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson…you miss it.” Well the bastard isn’t wrong. He misses the war, misses the missions, misses the rush of adrenaline in his veins and curses his injuries every minute for taking that from him. “Welcome back.”

 

The brother starts to saunter away and John’s phone pings again. “Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.”

 

John snorts. His side has always been his own, even in the Kingsman. “I’m to take you home.” The agent from before says. He climbs into the car the agent gestures to and reads the text: Could be dangerous. SH

He smiles. This is getting more and more interesting. “Address?” the agent asks.

 

“Baker Street. Two two one B Baker Street.” He has all of his weapons on him, as usual. Merlin will clear out his bedsit and send over the rest of his personal items later. He’ll bring up Gladstone with Sherlock later.

 

The agent will have told Mycroft that he’s been dropped at 221b. John grunts a farewell out to her and watches the car pull away. He turns and walks across to the pavement. He looks at the door and doesn’t hesitate before knocking.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever posted here. I'll probably update later this week but exams are in 2 weeks so it might taper off (sorry).


End file.
